Serial Killers
by nat13cat
Summary: The Winchesters as seen from the normal, monster-less world, where they are the ones hunted, even if they don't know it. Oneshot.


They were serial killers.

It was so simple, in writing at least. A fricking textbook case. Their father was a former military man, a marine no less. A basket case at best, probably enough PTSD to fill a tanker truck. No prior case of violence until post-spousal death, besides the one suspicious incident of said spouses mother and father dying on the same night.

Yes, she knew that. She knew everything about these two, from the size of their shoes to their favorite brand of beer. She knew that once mommy died Mr. Winchester up and ran, taking the two boys with him. She knew they school hopped for the rest of their lives, until Dean dropped out and Sam went off to Stanford.

Stanford. Can you believe it? A fricking serial killer.

Other than the public school records, a lot of their childhood remained hidden from her, even now. She had to do her best with the odd snippets of data shadow that would appear on her desk from time to time.

She knew that they were trained in bladed weaponry and all manners of hand to hand combat. It was also known that Dean had been trained in firearms at an irresponsibly young age, and Sam at a suicidally young age. They were to the caliber of the special forces marines, the ones that played paint war with the navy seals on weekends. Wilderness survival, urban survival, sustenance hunting.

If that had been it she would have popped out of her stake out van, handed them her business card and asked them to sign up for the armed forces. But that wasn't it.

They had more fake ID's than she did. They changed their aliases with every town they visited, and their cell phones twice as often. (Making them a bitch to track, let me tell you, it took up almost all her computers RAM) but they didn't just sustenance hunt.

They hunted people.

For sport.

She'd read their description out of her textbook in college. Juvenile trauma. Mentally unbalanced survivalist parent with religious fanaticism thrown in for kicks. Guns. Knives. Isolated cabins in the woods. She really didn't want to know what dear old John did to those boys up in those woods, alone. Though it would help complete her profile.

The Agency didn't catch wind of them until the car crash. They were entered on the hospital's system, and then when Daddy Winchester suspiciously died and his body disappeared, two names were tagged, and what do you know, they had also vanished.

Sam and Dean Winchester.

She sipped her coffee, staring at the monitor. Who knew what happened with that, though she had her theories. The first of which involved the brothers ganging up on Daddy and taking him out in the least suspicious way possible, they had been trained to do it after all. Years of sexual abuse and twisted religious crap can do that to you.

After that, they seemed to disappear again. Until their pictures started popping up everywhere across the Midwest. They had a distinctive pattern too, though she had no idea how they did it. Weird shit would go down in a town, people dying in the most creative ways. And then they would appear on camera, staying in a seedy motel, impersonating federal agents, observing their gruesome handiwork in sick arrogance. A few more people would die, some creatively, maybe one or two with gunshot wounds, and then they would check out and be gone. Poof.

She sips her coffee again, grimacing at the taste and tossing it in the trash. Sometimes they didn't follow their patten, holding up that bank once, and blowing up that police station and helicopter. They killed the FBI agent that had been on them before the case was transferred to her department. Bastards. And that crazy ass killing spree last year, where they seemed to want to be seen by the cameras. That had assured her that they had once again fake died, which seemed to be their signature. It was miraculous how they did it, and if she didn't hate the twisted sons of bitches so much she would have been impressed.

And then that crap with Dick Roman. She still didn't really get how Dick Roman had gotten involved with Hell's version of the Hardy Boys. Hired hit men? Maybe. Stupid idea on his part, look where it got him.

She had finally thought the dynamic duo was done. Done killing, done running, done with what ever they did alone in the dark. They were totally, unhealthily, erotically codependent on one each other. Another thing that probably stemmed from Daddy. She can practically hear it. "The only person you can ever depend on, the only person you can ever trust, the only person you can ever be with, is your brother."

Once in a while others entered their lives, but they always ended up dead. These two were so alone they might as well be one person.

Yet they came back, after a year off. Sam appeared in Texas, and Dean seemed to pop out of thin air in Maine. That damn car started appearing all over the map again. And they started killing.

So here she was, in her stake out van, having managed to track them to a seedy bar in a seedy town in a seedy county out west. She watched Dean take a sip of his beer and leer at the skinny blond behind the counter. Sam sighed and put his own glass down, grabbing Dean by the shoulder and steering him off his stool and towards the door.

This was it. Her chance to get rid of these psychos forever. They were so unbalanced, so violent they threatened a man at a LARPing convention for Pete's sake. A LARPing convention!

She checked her gun, clicking back the safety. Sam was pushing open the door now. She had a warrant to kill them on sight, it had been determined that they were impossible to hold. She pushed open the van door, hopping out into the night, keeping the gun at her side, hidden by the darkness. She hated killing, so injuring them would be better. They could keep them drugged at the hospital until she could get an arms helicopter out here.

"Sam! Dean!" She shouted, and the two brothers stopped in their tracks, looking up at her as she crossed the dark street. Sam frowned.

"Do we know you-" he never got a chance to finish his sentence. There was a bullet in his shoulder before he could make it a question. Dean managed to scream "Sam!" Before he had a bullet in his stomach and was groaning and bleeding on the ground. Sam was attempting to stand when she put another bullet in his leg.

He screamed, blood staining the sidewalk black in the night.

"Hey bitch."

She turned, and there was Dean, one hand holding his guts, the other holding a gun.

And that was the last thing she ever saw.


End file.
